Yeah, like I wasn’t gonna click on THIS link the second I saw it.
Chidera Eggerue has learned to love her body – saggy boobs and all – and now she wants to help others to do the same.
The 23-year-old award-winning British blogger, better known as the Slumflower, is the driving force behind Saggy Boobs Matter, an online movement that challenges unrealistic expectations of what breasts should look like.
“A lack of representation of saggy-looking boobs when I used to go bra shopping in M&S [as a young teenager] made me realise that something is wrong with the way the world views women’s bodies,” Eggerue told BuzzFeed News.
“The packaging would always have a picture of a white woman with perky boobs, yet when I’d try on the same bra in my correct size, my boobs just wouldn’t look like the model pictured.”
Pretty soon she had developed a complex and started to resent her boobs. “It was so bad that at that age I had already decided that I’d get a boob job once I got my first job at 18,” Eggerue said.
“I reached 18 and didn’t get a job, let alone a boob job, so I continued self-loathing until I reached 19 and became tired of feeling like a stranger in my own body. I decided I’d had enough and made the choice to stop wearing a bra.”
I’d never claim to be a support-garment expert or anything, but I’m pretty sure that ain’t helping your situation any, my dear.
Before we go any further with this, I’d like to reiterate a position I’ve outlined here once or twice before: namely, the ass-backwardness of trite, feel-good assertions like “everyone is beautiful.” No, everyone is NOT. The value we place on beauty is directly because of its scarcity, its distinctness. Leaving aside both cultural and individual differences in taste, which span a VERY wide range, if “everybody is beautiful,” then nobody is; it renders the word devoid of any useful meaning.
To make things even more confusing, standards of beauty are remarkably malleable even within a single culture, and are constantly changing. The American ideal in what you might call the modern era went pretty quickly from Shelly Winters to Raquel Welch to the emaciated-junkie look we’ve been saddled with, who even knows why, for entirely too long now. When I lived in NYC back in the 90s I frequently had occasion to be in places where well-known fashion models were also likely to be disporting themselves, and I can tell you that most of the poor scrawny things were ugly as a mud fence up close and personal-like.
We already have words adequate for describing the majority of us without taxing “beauty” beyond repair: ordinary, average, mundane, common, nondescript. Doesn’t mean we aren’t attractive, mind, nor does it mean that there ain’t at least one half-blind sucker out there who might find us completely alluring against all odds.
All that said, though, I’d like to reassure this woman that there really aren’t all that many of us males who are terribly troubled by titties sporting less pop and more flop. In fact, I know for reals that there are huge numbers of us horndogs out there who greatly prefer ’em that way. As for boob jobs, umm, no. Seriously, just…NO. I know there’s absolutely no reason this woman should care about what I think, but if there was ever one thing guaranteed to get me pondering whether to throw rocks or head for the hills where a prospective romantic partner was concerned, it was unleashing those puppies only to be greeted by a set of store-boughts. That’s a deal-breaker for me every time, not that it ever has actually happened; I’ve always been pretty adept at spotting the horrible mutilations even before the giftwrap comes off. My God, I think I’d almost rather unzip the fly to find a dick than that.
Or, y’know, maybe not.
In any event, don’t agonize over your natural gifts, girl; relax, be of good cheer, and be happy with what you got. Trust me, there’s somebody worthwhile out there who will be thrilled to death with ’em, and will enjoy each and every opportunity you give him to see, admire, and touch them. There’s a reason we call ’em “fun bags,” a perfectly apt term that does not come with any qualifiers, disclaimers, or caveats attached. In the end, all they really gotta be is titties and most of us will be pleased as hell to stand up and cheer for ’em every time. If you run across some putz who seems unabashedly unhappy about yours—no matter what style, size, or shape they might be—just walk away and be glad you found out fairly early how incompatible you were without wasting a lot of time trying to convince yourself it might be otherwise.
Hey, how do you make five pounds of ugly, useless fat irresistible to men? Put a nipple on it.
I know, I know. Sorry, I just couldn’t resist.